


The Master's Return

by augustrain



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Doctor Who, Blood and Violence, Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), DoctorDonna, Dubious Consent, F/M, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1985172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustrain/pseuds/augustrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this multi-era story, a resurrected Master who looks just like the Tenth Doctor wrecks havoc on past and future. With the latest incarnation of the Doctor MIA and the rest of Gallifrey locked in a bubble at the end of the galaxy, the only way to stop the Master is to unite the three people in the universe with partial Time Lord DNA: the Doctor’s clone-daughter Jenny, the Metacrisis Doctor in Pete’s World, and post-memory loss Donna Noble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gallifrey Falls No More

Sometime in the night, the world had flickered on again. Because he was sleeping - (and he always seemed to be sleeping now) - the prisoner had missed the great commotion, whatever it was. Still, some chaos lingered on the edges of his vanishing dreams: screams, and everything burning, and the sickening sense of falling uncontrolled through time.

He remembered the moment of his capture, just the very split second of it, but nothing more. Or almost nothing. There had been a great sense of anguish, but also of relief, and the feel of cold metal closing over his ankles and wrists. The imprisonment was instantaneous; no trial, no transport, merely a shift in time and space so that he was already locked away in the bright dungeon at the heart of Arcadia.

A white room. Maybe it was fitting, for they told him he was mad.

Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

"Stop it!" he shrieked into the brightness. The sound had infuriated him, but who was making it?

Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

He jerked his body and jumped to his feet as though to run, to attack, to tear whoever was making that sound limb from limb with his bare hands in order to stop them. But of course the chains prevented much motion - the chains tethering his arms and legs to the floor - and he fell.

Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

He saw then that he was the one making the sound, rapping the back of his nails against the smooth metal of his manacles, and he laughed, then wept, then laughed again.

Rat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

Outside his cell he could sense a great hum of activity and upheaval. Something had changed.

Lying on his side on the white floor, he regarded his reflection in the smooth metal cuff on his wrist. The face boyish and youthful, the eyes bloodshot, the hair very fair, the chin covered in stubble.

This was his face, but it didn't feel like his face. It wasn't the right face. His closed his eyes and a different face appeared before his vision: burning brown eyes, a mess of brown hair, scraped cheeks and a cut across the bridge of the nose. He loved this face and hated it. It filled him with an anger and a loathing so intense that all he could do was laugh, and even his laugh took on the rhythm of the terrible rapping sound: ah-ha-ha-ha. ah-ha-ha-ha. ah-ha-ha-ha.

It was hard to tell how long he lay there like that before the door opened. It was possible he'd fallen into a dreamless sleep again, but he wasn't sure. Suddenly he was awake and there were three Time Lords standing over him in long, red velvet robes. The two behind wore metal breastplates and fluted headdresses, while the one in front was bare-headed.

"Good," the leading Time Lord said. "I see you're still here."

"That is what we told you, Lord President," said the Time Lord to his left.

"Yes, but he's slippery, this one. I needed to be sure, what with ... the shift." He looked down at the cowering prisoner before him.

"Koschei, listen to me," the Time Lord President said. "Do you know where you are?"

The prisoner writhed before him, hiding his eyes. He knew that was his name, or had been, but it was the wrong name. Wrong name and wrong face, he thought.

"Koschei! Answer me!"

"I don't know," the prisoner said, then, "I don't know!!" he screamed, the sound echoing out into the corridor outside his cell.

"You're on Gallifrey, Koschei," the President said. "In Arcadia."

"Gallifrey," the prisoner said, and images spread through his mind. Red robes, red grass, red blood, red sun on the mountains. "Gallifrey. Gallifrey Gallifrey Gallifrey Gallifrey Gallifrey! Gallifrey? Gallifr--"

"Stop it," the President interrupted him, and the prisoner was silent and lay still. "And do you know why you're here?"

The prisoner thought for a moment.

"Yes," he said finally. "My crimes are without number and my villainy is without end."

The President laughed.

"That's true," the President said. "But more specifically you're here for plotting to conquer a level five planet. Again."

"Again," the prisoner repeated. "Again again again again again again --"

"That's enough," the President said. The prisoner was silent.

"I'm sorry," the President continued, "but we've put a temporal freeze on your mind in lieu of your impending vaporization. It may not be safe otherwise."

"Not safe," the prisoner repeated. "Not safe."

"Koschei, I don't know if you can understand this, but your condition - we had to do it. I had to. You know that, somewhere." The President knelt down, regarding him almost kindly. "But even with this ... this madness ... we can't let your crimes go unpunished. However, you'll be glad to know that we've been lenient."

"Lenient?" the prisoner said.

"Yes, in a way. Considering your innumerable crimes, the proper sentence ought to be the Oubliette of Eternity. Do you recall what that means?"

The prisoner searched his mind and found that he did.

"It means I'm taken out of the Web of Time. All the selves that I have been, vanished."

"Yes, but we aren't going to do that. You can keep your past, but there won't be any future."

The prisoner lay quietly, rapping softly against his manacles.

"You're scheduled for molecular dispersal in the morning, Koschei. I'm sorry. Things are still a little ... chaotic, what with the recent return. There's no sign of the Daleks. The Time War is over. And you can die knowing that, in the end, you had a hand in that, though unwittingly."

The prisoner shut his eyes, not really understanding what the President was saying. Time War? Daleks? These words meant nothing to him. Every time he shut his eyes there was a blur of imagery, none of which he really understood except that hated and loved face, those burning brown eyes filled with love and sorrow, that face which was a constant. But he couldn't name it. Who is it? he thought, again and again. Who is it?

He decided to ask the President, and so he opened his eyes and looked up at him. The Time Lord was staring down at him with a strange look on his face: pity. He'd meant to ask about the face that haunted him, but then a different question presented itself.

"Say my name," the prisoner said, and the President stiffened, the look of pity vanishing. The guards behind him stood to attention, their spears held out in front.

"Say it," the prisoner spat. "Say it!"

The President hesitated for a moment, then gestured to the guards who pointed their spears at the prisoner. Blue sonic energy emanated from their points, and the prisoner felt the room going dark again, his heavy sleep returning.

"You're the Master," he heard the President say softly, as the Time Lords retreated from his cell, and then the darkness claimed him.


	2. The Executioner's Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some violence warnings for this chapter, nothing too gory.

In the morning, they came for him. The door to his cell was flung open and a cold burst of air came rushing in from the cavernous hallways of the security compound.

The Executioner stepped through the door. She wore a black cloak over her white dress, a long ceremonial knife hanging from her low-slung belt. When she pushed back her dark hood, her long blond hair, heavily tinged with gray though her face was smooth, fell almost to her waist. Behind her in the corridor stood a retinue of Time Lords, perhaps twenty of them, armed and in full ceremonial dress, their robes the color of dried blood.

The prisoner rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his grimy black sweatshirt. He looked up at her.

“Stand,” the Executioner said, and he did, slowly drawing himself to his full height, his chains clattering. She was taller.

“I, twelfth regeneration of the designated mortality agent of the Time Lord High Command, Council to Lord President Rassilon, have come with the warrant for your molecular dispersal,” she said. “We shall henceforth convey you to a place of termination.”

Two of the retinue entered and unshackled the prisoner from the floor. They removed the manacles from his wrists and ankles, and each held him by an arm. He did not struggle. The Executioner unsheathed her knife and held it in the air over the prisoner’s head. The blade glowed red with sonic energy, and at its summons a chamber materialized around them, its walls a dark gold-green. There was a whirring, wheezing sound, and when the chamber dematerialized again, the prisoner, the Executioner and her two guards were standing on a platform in the center of a vast and spherical hall.

The Panopticon.

All around were balconies as if to support an audience of thousands, but all of the balconies were empty save one. Across the chasm from the platform where the prisoner and his attendants stood, Lord Rassilon sat while five of his council stood behind him. The Executioner unclasped her dark cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and addressed the President.

“My Lord,” she said, her voice echoing. “Do you condemn this prisoner?”

Rassilon nodded.

“His mind has been time-locked to prevent escape,” she said. “Will you remove the freeze for him so that he may face his final moments with the dignity befitting the Time Lord race?”

One of the President’s council leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

“No,” Rassilon said. The Executioner’s guards glanced at one another.

“Very well,” the Executioner said. She leaned in towards the prisoner, and in barely more than a whisper she spoke his name. Not his childhood nickname, nor the title he had given himself, but his real name, the one to be spoken only at birth, marriage and death. Something stirred in his chest at the sound of it, like the ache of a very old pain. She looked him in the eye, and he noticed for the first time that her irises were as black as her pupils. When he gazed into them he was filled with terror, for at their dark heart there seemed to swirl the shadowy vortex of the Untempered Schism. He blinked, but the image was burned behind his own eyes now, and a familiar sound was starting up: dun-un-un-un, dun-un-un-un, dun-un-un-un.

“No,” he whispered. He tried to move but found that he couldn’t. She had hypnotized him.

“Having named you, I now condemn you,” she said. “Proceed to the chamber for dispersal.”

Her sonic knife glowed red again, and a tall glass chamber appeared at the end of the platform. The Executioner walked him towards it. At the top of it there appeared to roil a dark purple mist with flashes of light inside, like a storm cloud.

“Stand in the chamber,” she said, and he found himself obeying. The four-beat pounding was growing louder and louder, faster and faster, and he realized it was his own hearts beating. Once inside the chamber he could see the vortex swirling all around him, as if reflected in the glass. The whole vastness of time and space was waiting to receive his individual molecules as they were separated, scattering them across the eons and cosmos so that they could never be reconstituted. He looked into the dark eyes of the Executioner and they reminded him of something: that face he kept seeing behind his closed eyes. Something snapped in him. He was struck by a burst of energy and in an instant he came back to himself. The full power of who he was came barreling up through him from some deeply buried place and finally broke the surface. In an instant he knew that rather than the Executioner controlling him, he could reverse the hypnosis, did so, was controlling her now. His will had broken the time-lock, was stronger, and had won.

He remained in the chamber as the purple mist began to descend around him. The Executioner strode away and towards the two guards, her sonic knife held high.

“Executioner?” Rassilon called, alarm in his voice, but it was too late. The Executioner slashed her knife through the air in front of the guards and wounds appeared at their throats, the dark blood pouring out and mixing with their dark red robes.

“Guards!” Rassilon shouted “Security! Stop her!”

Two of his council ran off to get reinforcements. Meanwhile, on the platform, the two guards had crumpled, golden light beginning to gather around them, obscuring their faces and hands. But before they could begin to regenerate in earnest, the Executioner slashed her sonic knife through the air again, and a spray of blood flew from the guards, spattering across her white dress. Again the golden light began to gather about them, and again she sliced at the air, closer this time, the pool of blood around them growing wider.

“Security!” Rassilon screamed. Now only one of the guards was attempting to regenerate, but the Executioner kept striking, crying out with the effort, until he lay still.

Inside the molecular dispersal chamber, the Master was laughing. He had remembered himself now, the madness in him inspired by the vortex had proved stronger than the freeze they had placed on him to contain it.

Finally, a phalanx of Time Lord soldiers appeared at the entrance to the Panopticon’s stage, weapons at the ready. The Executioner crumbled to her knees and her sonic knife clattered down to the floor. In an instant the Master was beside her and he clasped the knife in his hand. He whipped her around, holding her arms behind her, and held the knife to her throat.

“Stand back!” he shouted to the soldiers. “You wouldn’t want to endanger the life of this Lady, who has so dutifully served you in your machinations of death all these centuries, now would you?”

The soldiers hesitated.

“What, want to kill me?” the Master said. “There’s really no need for bloodshed. Oh, who am I kidding. Just one more then.”

Grasping the Executioner by the wrist he spun her out away from him and then whipped her back towards him.

"You were going to kill me," he said to her. "Very naughty."

He raised the knife up as if to strike her with it, but just then he felt a sharp pain and then a spreading wetness across his chest. She'd stabbed him, using a second blade hidden in her belt. Not a sonic blade, just an ordinary one, but it was enough to do the trick. He let go of the Executioner and she fell to the ground again. The master reeled but remained on his feet, the sonic knife still clutched in his hand.

“Stop him!” Rassilon shouted. “Shoot! Stop him before —“

But it had already started. Great bursts of golden light engulfed him and he felt a blinding pain sweep through every cell of his body. The blast knocked the soldiers back, who cowered on the ground as they saw a blue skull flicker where the Masters head should have been. He was laughing and screaming at once as his body changed itself, growing taller, lankier. In a final burst of fiery energy it was done and he staggered backward before catching himself. The transformation was complete.

“Well then!” he shouted, spinning around. Rassilon, his remaining council members and the soldiers were staring at him, aghast.

“Now doesn’t that feel BETTER!” the Master shouted, whirling around. The sonic knife was still in his hand, and everyone in the Panopticon ducked as he pointed it in their direction. “And don’t I sound strange? Hello! Hellloooo! Always the biggest surprise, the voice, isn’t it Lord President? Well anyway I think so.”

He put a hand up to his face.

“Pointier this time, I should say,” he remarked as he felt his nose and cheekbones. “And ooh look at that, sideburns!”

Rassilon spoke from his position on the floor.

“D — Doctor?”

“What?!” the Master screamed, pointing the knife in the direction of the President. Two of the council members threw their bodies in front to protect their ruling Time Lord, but the knife made no cuts. “Why are you saying that?”

“You mean …” Rassilon said, “this isn’t a trick? Is that you, Doctor?”

“The Doctor!” the Master exclaimed, his voice full of disdain. “That jester? That clown? That weakling? What, don’t tell me I look like him now!”

The expressions of horror on every face in the room showed him everything that he needed to know.

“Oh, but --- oh!” he shouted, whirling around again. Again the Time Lords all ducked. He felt his face once more, his mess of wild hair standing on end. He examined the long fingers of his hand like a woman inspecting her manicure, the sleeves of his sweatshirt now too short for him.

“Well this is … well. Dare I say it? Might as well now! This is brilliant!”

“Contain him!” Rassilon commanded, but the soldiers did not move.

“You know what’s even more brilliant,” the Master said, striding over to the Executioner again and hauling her to her feet, the knife blade once again at her throat. “This dispersal chamber you’ve got over here is capable of sending the molecules of a Time Lord to the farthest reaches of time and space!” He was backing towards it, had almost reached it now. “Which means, my dear, dear comrades, that it operates by accessing the Time Vortex. And the only way to do that —“ he gave the Executioner a little tag against her blood spattered white dress, pulling her more tightly against him “ — is by functioning by way of — can you guess it?”

He let out a maniacal laugh.

“Say it with me! No? Oh all right, you’re no fun at all! It functions by way of Time. And. Relative. Dimension. In. Space!”

He had reached the chamber now, and he laughed again. One touch of the knife and the clear glass chamber changed its appearance, morphing into a black metal box.

“Ooooh!” he exclaimed “And with a working chameleon circuit, no less. Now let’s see.”

The TARDIS changed, taking on the shape of a blue 1960s police box. The Master laughed even louder.

“Nah!” he said. “Just kidding!” And with a twist of the knife it turned into a black metal box again. A door swung open and red light poured out.

“Well,” the Master said. “It’s been SUCH a blast, I can’t tell you. But I’ve really got to be going.”

He spun the Executioner around to face him. He was taller then her now. He dipped her low over his knee, like in a dance move, and planted a wet kiss on her lips. There’d been blood on her face from murdering the guards, and the master licked his lips.

“Twelfth regeneration, did you say?” he asked the still stunned Time Lady, staring into her hypnotized, dark vortex-infused eyes. “What a pity.” He took the sonic knife and plunged it into her back. A burst of red escaped her lips. The soldiers gasped and rushed forward as he let her fall to the ground.

“Um, bye!” the new Master said, waving the knife in the air. He stepped into the waiting black TARDIS and vanished from the hall.


	3. Insanity of the TARDIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens to a TARDIS that's been used as a killing machine for millenia? The Master continued to plot his escape from time-locked Gallifrey.

As soon as the Executioner's TARDIS shifted into the Vortex, the Master knew that something was wrong. Very wrong. 

Though he now found himself inside what should have been the console room, there was no console in sight. The ambient light flickered on and off, going from red to purple to total blackness and back again, cycling through. A high-pitched keening rang out in the chamber, part alarm bell and part animal scream. The TARDIS shook violently and the Master was thrown to the ground. The sonic knife went skittering away from him. The floor beneath him (if he could call it that) was soft and slick, almost spongy. Something from his Academy days flashed through his mind: a lesson about TARDISes in their natural state.

"Come on, come on," he soothed as he struggled to his feet. "Don't be like this. You and I could do great things together, and we've only just met."

The TARDIS shook again, her gravity tilting violently, so that the Master was hurled off of his feet once more and slammed against the wall.

"Easy!" he said. "I only just got this body. Have a care with it."

Iridescent raised circles appeared all across the walls and ceiling, like bubbles forming on water, or a toad's eyes opening. He had a feeling like the TARDIS was regarding him. The air around him smelled suddenly of sulfur.

"So you're spirited," the Master said. "I like that in a mate. We could get on swimmingly."

A dark doorway opened up in the wall across from him, and through it rushed a great wave of liquid, black but roiling with golden phosphorescent plankton.

He was swept up in it, pulled into a whirlpool, saltwater rushing into his mouth and up his nose. "Haha, very funny," he said, before he was pulled under. It took a moment for his respiratory bypass to kick in and then he let himself be swept along with the current. He opened his eyes and saw that the sonic knife was also swept up in the wave, churning in the water. He managed to swim towards it and grasp the handle. There were bumps along the hilt, like buttons maybe. He pressed one and the blade glowed red, causing the TARDIS to give an even more violent shake. He pressed another and the blade retreated back into the handle. He put it in his pocket, and tried to concentrate.

"Trust me," he thought, telepathically trying to communicate with the TARDIS. "Listen to your Master."

The TARDIS continued to slosh him about, shifting her gravity so that as soon as he swam towards the surface of the water her orientation shifted and he'd be at the bottom again. He put his hands against his temples and tried to slip into the timestream, to read the mind of the TARDIS. At first, it was all chaos, all darkness and supernovas and screams. Fine, he was used to that kind of thing. He pursued the mind of the TARDIS down these pathways, seeking her out behind the madness, trying to find her center. He saw the Executioner then, the light going out in her eyes, that portal into the Untempered Schism going dark at last. Back on Gallifrey, she was dying and wouldn't regenerate.

"Forget your Mistress," he told the TARDIS telepathically. "I'm your Master now. You don't have to die with her."

The water calmed somewhat and the light flashed more golden. He managed to break the surface and draw air into his lungs before he was plunged under once more.

"Good," he though to her. "That's it. Come 'round to me. I can do this all day if you want."

Using every last strength of his Time Lord mind, he wrapped himself mentally around the explosions inside the mind of the TARDIS and worked to tamp them down. 

"Shhh, shhhh," he told her. "Listen to your Master. Easy now."

The waters subsided, depositing a very drenched Master back onto the floor. He gulped at the air, his chest heaving. A tendril of golden regeneration energy escaped his mouth. He coughed.

"Well, never let it be said that I don't like it rough," he said, picking at his sodden clothes.

He lay on his stomach and put his ear to the floor, feeling for the rhythm of her breathing. When he found it, that strange but unmistakable hum, he tried to coordinate all of his body systems, his pulse and his breathing, the cadence of his mind, to work in harmony with her. It wasn't easy, as she'd been reconfigured and used as an execution chamber for a very long time.

"There we go," he said. He placed his palm against her and felt the soft surface beneath his hand turn to metal. He lifted his hand and saw the metal hand print disappear, like fog on glass.

"Come on, we're nearly there."

He put his palm down again and this time the metal spread to cover the floor beneath him. The ambient light stopped flashing and settled into a cold fluorescence tinged with green, like the lights in a morgue. The metal continued to climb up the walls until it covered the whole interior, the domed circles receding back into the wall until they looked like opaque white portals. Finally a column began to grow out of the floor until it reached the high ceiling. It widened, spouting a geometric console, levers, lights, screens and buttons.

The Master rolled over onto his back and laughed in relief. 

"Good girl," he said, patting the floor beside him. "I knew you'd warm to me."

The TARDIS interior shuddered, the lights going red for a moment before turning bleak again. He lay there catching his breath as she idled in the Vortex. Okay, so she was still unstable. Very unstable, if he could hazard a guess; so much so that he wasn't sure how much control he'd be able to exert to fly her. She wasn't really his yet, but at least it was a start.


	4. Locked In Time

“How is this possible?! Tell me!”

Rassilon slammed his fist onto the burnished wood of the meeting table in the Council Room. Outside the high windows, the sky above Arcadia was pink and violet and rain-washed, as over the city and the red fields beyond a peaceful morning brightened and dawned. Too peaceful.

“Get him back! Get him back here right now!!”

“Lord President, we’re still trying to work it out,” said one of his council, a Time Lord with a regal face and dark skin. “We … can’t get him back. The Executioner’s TARDIS won’t respond. I’m sorry, but I tried to tell you this would happen.”

Rassilon shouted an incoherent stream of abuse and slammed his fist down on the table once more. The Council all lowered their eyes. He wanted to vaporize the offending Lord, but couldn’t, at least not on the spot. He looked at his gauntlet lying useless on the table before him. It was nothing more than a metal glove now, ever since the Master shot a bolt of energy at it while Doctor sent them back into the time-locked Time War. The combination had caused some kind of short circuit, rendering it useless.

But then … they thought the Time Lock had broken, as the war ended and the Daleks vanished. They'd escaped the Moment, and rejoicing began. That is, until they found that they were still trapped. Panic began to rise in the President, and he wondered how long he would be able to hold onto power without his usual instrument. He picked up the glove and the members of the Council all flinched. With another roaring shout he hurled it across the room.

At the other end of the long table, the black-eyed Visionary, the Council’s seer, was busy writing her prophesies. She was more agitated than they had ever seen her. As usual her face and hands were covered in ink markings of her own making, and the frizzled gray hair that sprung out from under her velvet cap showed signs of ink stains as well.

“They’re gone, they’re gone, gone, gone!” she said. “Gone as we are gone, gone, gone. But they are burning, always burning now, while we live, live! Live!”

“It is the cracks in the Time Lock, my Lord,” said a black-haired Time Lady seated next to the seer, placing a hand on her sleeve to calm her. “There have always been cracks, those little spaces to fall through. The White-Point Star made it through, and … well …”

She didn’t finish the thought, because she didn’t have to. They all knew that Daleks, namely Dalek Caan, had somehow fallen through the cracks of the Time Lock as well.

“I want him obliterated!” Rassilon said. “The Master. Use whatever we have. I want the Omega Arsenal opened. Call for conference in the Panopticon.”

“My Lord,” said another Time Lady of the Council, whose current regeneration was that of an old woman. “That will have to wait, they’re … still cleaning up the blood.”

“Daleks!” said the seer, the word rising above her usual muttering. “Daleks are gone, Daleks are dead, Daleks are defeated. The Doctor has defeated them. Twelve Doctors, arranged across the sky. There will be Twelve more. The Daleks will never return. They have already returned. They have escaped. They are vanquished. They are not here. They are ---”

The black-haired Time Lady placed a gentle hand on the Visionary’s sleeve again to quiet her.

“What does she mean?” asked the dark-skinned Time Lord. “Can they really be gone?”

The Council looked to the empty morning sky, free of fire and attacking ships, no Daleks in sight.

“Does this mean we’ve escaped the Time Lock? “ the Time Lord asked.

Rassilon took a breath and calmed himself, sitting back down at the table again. “Visionary? What can you tell us?”

The seer stopped her scribbling and planted her hands on the table. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she spoke in a clear voice.

“We have been saved, separated from the Daleks. I can’t see them. But we are still hidden. We cannot get out. We are locked here before Time, after Time, outside of Time. A membrane of the Vortex keeps us connected, keeps us fed. The Master is in the TARDIS. The TARDIS is in the membrane.”

“A blasted bubble then. Will we be able to get out?” Rassilon asked.

“It is impossible to escape the Time Lock,” the Visionary replied.

“Then?”

“We can’t escape the Time Lock. He will escape the Time Lock. If he escapes the Time Lock we will be free.”

“How will we be free?” Rassilon demanded.

“The Master,” she said, but she blinked. Her eyes returned to normal and she started writing again. “The Master. Master, Master, Master! He will free us from the Time Lock. He will defeat the Doctor, set us free. The Master-Doctor, Doctor-Master, Master-Doctor.”

“My Lord,” said another of the Council Time Lords. “Don’t you think … with the Master’s new regeneration … that this could be, well, dangerous? How do we know that what she’s seeing is correct? Maybe it’s the Master’s demise she sees, and not the Doctors?”

“I want them both dead,” Rassilon said. “And what has gotten into you? As a member of the Time Lord race, she’ll know the Master when she sees him, no matter his face. Besides, you saw this too the day the war was ended. The Doctor doesn’t look like that anymore. He can’t go back and cross his timeline, he’ll cause a paradox.”

“But … Lord President,” the black-haired Time Lady said. “Crossing into the Doctor’s timeline won’t cause a paradox because … he isn’t the Doctor. He just looks like him. He could do all sorts of damage.”

“Well?” Rassilon asked the Council. “Will he be able to get out?”

“I think,” said the dark-skinned Time Lord. “That he won’t be able to take the TARDIS anywhere else. If he lands, he’ll have to land on Gallifrey, and if he does we’ll find him. He should be punished for his crimes. He has murdered a designated agent of the High Command and her guards, not to mention his other plots and offenses.”

“I want the Panopticon readied,” the President said as he rose to his feet again. “We’ll hold a vote on what to do.”


	5. The Most Important Woman

“Open it!” Shaun urged. “Go on. It’s nothing special, just for the … you know, for the thing.”

“The thing?” Donna asked, smiling, taking the wrapped gift the size of a phonebook from among the scraped dessert plates and setting it in her lap. She looked at Shaun seated across from her, his elbows resting on the white tablecloth, his face lit by candlelight. He really was lovely. If only she felt more comfortable in fancy places like this. Even after one and a half years it still felt strange. She adjusted the cowl neckline of her sleeveless cashmere sweater.“What thing?”

“You know,” Shaun said, downing the last of his very expensive white wine and then beaming at her. “The thing thing.”

The paper on the gift was white embossed with silver, tied with a silky lavender-colored ribbon: a professional wrap job. She hadn’t even opened it but already she could smell posh department store perfume.

“But I haven’t gotten you anything,” Donna said, her heart sinking. “I’m the worst wife there ever was.”

The truth was that she’d forgotten. She’d been forgetting so much lately. She wondered if it was the hormone treatments, or maybe just the odd stress of having recently become a multimillionaire many times over. Well, relatively recently, anyway. It was only a few days after the wedding that the lottery numbers were announced and everything began to change so fast. The reporters, the TV appearances. Seeing as they were newlyweds and the ticket had been a wedding present from an anonymous guest, it made for a great story. That and the fact that, at over 200 million pounds, it was the biggest jackpot ever.

After a few months the attention had died down, and since the couple had shown no signs of doing anything crazy or sensational, they were quickly and mercifully ignored by the press. By the time they actually saw any of the money the media had forgotten them completely. They bought Sylvia a new house in Chiswick and gifted her a ‘round-the-world trip. She was currently taking a painting course in Arles. They’d donated money to charity, paid off their debts and the debts of their friends and family, and then bought the big house on Hampstead Heath. Donna had had a few crazy weeks of shopping in which she bought far more clothes than she could ever, ever hope to wear, but after that — it was strange — she almost didn’t feel like spending any money at all. Still, they’d been on three holidays in the last four months. She bought Wilfred a new telescope more suited for a college astronomy department than the posh in-law cottage he occupied out back, and they settled into a rather quiet routine. But no matter what, she still frequently left her keys at home and had to call Wilfred or Shaun to let her back in. She forgot doctor’s appointments and lunch dates and where she’d left her handbag. It was Shaun who had made this reservation two weeks prior, and he told her about it, but still she hadn’t remembered — not even about what day it was.

“Doesn’t matter love,” he said. “It’s nothing at all.”

“Oh all right then, if I must!” Donna joked, and gingerly unwrapped the gift. She was smiling, excited, but when she realized what it was her heart sank a little further and she struggled to retain her pleased expression.

Pajamas. They were lovely — a gorgeous floral pattern of lilacs and violets on a cream background, and softer than anything. They were obviously very expensive, and exactly the kind of thing she would have salivated over in her poorer days. They were so nice that a person would want to wear them all day. It was just that she didn’t really need a reminder of how idle she’d recently been, how few reasons she really had lately to get dressed and leave their massive, lavish new home.

“They’re beautiful Shaun,” she said, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes. “Really gorgeous.”

“You don’t like them?” he asked, worried. He knew her too well. “I got them because, you know, the lilacs obviously, but mostly because they’re cotton. Second year is cotton. None of the cotton pants and bra sets were fancy enough.”

“They’re wonderful,” she said, smiling genuinely now and trying to pass off the tear that went trickling down her face as one of joy. Since starting the fertility treatments she cried at pretty much anything anyway — puppies in the street, sad stories in the newspapers, looking up at the night sky. Especially that, for some reason. “And you’re wonderful. My wonderful husband. Happy Anniversary Darling.”

Shaun got up and came to sit beside her on the banquet. He wiped the tear from her face and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Happy Anniversary.”


	6. The Time Agent and The Ood

The Raxacoricofallapatorian bartender finished pulling the pints for the two Judoon officers, wiped the drips from the counter, and placed a cocktail menu down in front of the human female. She was thin and blonde and had heaved a large black duffel bag up onto the bar stool beside her. She was rapping her fingers on the bar to the tune of the Felspoonian big band jazz.

“What’ll it be, sweetheart,” the bartender said, his huge black eyes looking kindly. “Andromeda Ale? A New Manhattan? Sirius Scotch? A Dirty Shirley Temple? Basket of Land Prawns?”

The woman pushed her ponytail over her shoulder and smoothed down the fabric of her fitted green tee shirt. She scanned down the menu.

“Actually,” she said, “I think I’ll just have … a Sontaran Screwdriver.”

“One Sontaran Screwdriver, coming right up.”

A human male swaggered up to the bar beside her and sat down. He wore leather trousers, high boots and a red jacket that looked like it had belonged to a drum major.

“Well hello there, Gorgeous,” he said to her, turning his body towards her. “And what galaxy did you blow in from? What’s a nice girl like you doing in a rough place like this?”

The woman gave him a squinty, insincere smile.

“I’m not going to have sex with you or mate with you, telepathically or physically,” she said plainly though not impolitely. “Just to get that out of the way.”

The man put his hands up as if in surrender and laughed.

“Well okay then! Was only saying hello,” he said, and then extended his hand for her to shake. “I’m Captain John Hart, but you can call me John.”

She took his hand and shook it vigorously, meeting his eye.

“I’m Jenny,” she said. “And you can call me … well, Jenny I guess.”

The bartender placed Jenny’s drink in front of her. It was bright pink and came in a round glass the size of a fish bowl. Out of the top protruded a long curly blue straw and a pink paper umbrella.

“Blimey,” John said.

“Yeah,” Jenny agreed. “Sontaran. I was expecting something a little more … butch, I guess.”

“Well as an asexual society, I guess they’ve got to get their kicks somehow,” John said. “But really, what brings you here? That drink is bigger than you are. How old are you?”

“I’m three,” Jenny said cheerfully, taking a sip through the straw. “Wooo that’s strong!”

Captain John, his own drink at his lips, sputtered and coughed.

“Okay, now I really feel like a dirty old man,” he said. “But listen Jenny, I was wondering what it was you’ve got in that bag there. You’re not a wholesaler by any chance? Because if you are, I’ve got this once in a lifetime ---“

Jenny cut in.

“Actually, maybe you can help me,” she said, interrupting. “I’m looking for someone. Someone sort of … unusual.”

“Okay honey, who’d you loose? Your babysitter?”

“He’s my … well, he’s called the Doctor,” she said, taking another sip of her drink and wincing again. “My word that’s sweet! But um, he’s … well, there isn’t anyone else like him. Except me. We’re the last ones, I think. He looks, well, sort of like me. Except taller, and he’s got brown hair and brown eyes and is male, obviously. And he wears a long brown coat.”

Across the bar from them a pair of Hath females in mini-skirts had climbed up onto a table to dance.

“Okay,” Captain John said. “And you say he’s called the Doctor?”

“That’s right.”

“Doctor who?” John asked.

“Just … the Doctor. And I really, really need to find him. He thinks I’m dead, so he doesn’t know to look for me. You can see my problem.”

“Right,” John said, not sounding very interested. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. I meet a lot of people, but that doesn’t ring a bell. Don’t encounter a lot of doctors in my line of work. Which, by the way, may interest you. See my partner and I have got something really amazing if you’re interested.”

“Oh,” Jenny said. “You have a partner?”

He pointed across the bar, to where a very handsome, dark-haired young man in suspenders had his arm around a nearly naked green humanoid with three breasts. The green woman’s tail had curled up around to play with the man’s hair. They were both laughing.

“That’s him,” John said. “He’s just a little busy at the moment. Would you like to see our find? It’s a great deal.”

“What is it?” Jenny asked.

“Well first of all, drink’s on me,” he said, and swiped a small rectangular card across the bar. The area where he’d swiped it glowed green for a moment, there was a ding, and a pleasant female voice said “thank you for your purchase of eight credits. Enjoy your evening.” The Raxacoricofallapatorian waved in thanks from the other end of the bar.

“Come on outside and I’ll show you,” John said. Jenny shouldered her duffel bag and followed him out of the bar.

They stepped through the doors and out into the desert night. A wind had picked up, blowing sand across the airstrip and against the metal of the compound; the bar, the refueling station, the mechanics lot, and a low wing of rooms for overnight stays. Two credits would get you a shower. The landscape around them was desolate and seemed to stretch on forever without any other signs of life, featureless under the bright twin moonlight. The compound and the assembled space craft cast long, eery shadows. A muscular male humanoid with red skin whistled at them from under the eaves of the bar.

“Looking for a good time?” he said, winking.

“No thanks, we’re good,” Jenny replied cheerfully, and followed John into the parking area of mismatched starships.

“Clom,” John said. “Fucking awful place. Ever been here before?”

“Once or twice,” Jenny said.

“Yeah well anyway. Come with me, we parked our find just on the other side of that sand dune.”

Jenny had a strange, wary feeling. She felt for her gun in the side pocket of her duffel. One of her guns, anyway. It was easily retrievable and besides, this guy wasn’t so big. She could take him if it came to that. She followed him into the day-bright moonlight.

“What are you driving, anyway?” John asked over his shoulder.

“It’s a, a Messalinian shuttlecraft,” she said, trying to keep pace. She glanced behind her as well, making sure they weren’t being followed.

“Shuttlecraft!” he scoffed. “Ha, no wonder you can’t find your doctor. Talk about a space mule!”

“Yeah I know,” Jenny replied. “It is slow.”

“Well you’re going to love this,” he said, stopping abruptly in front of her. “Here we are.”

“There isn’t anything here!” Jenny said, looking around at the vacant sand.

“Well it’s invisible, isn’t it? Here.” He fiddled with a cuff on his wrist and the ship before them de-cloaked. It was small, made just for a single pilot and one passenger perhaps, with dual rear thrusters that glowed blue and a glass hatch top. It hovered a few feet above the sand.

"Chula cruiser," he said. "One of the last ones out there, if not the very last."

“She’s gorgeous!” Jenny exclaimed. John came up and put his arm around her.

“Hey!” Jenny exclaimed. “Don’t touch me!”

Captain John moved behind her and put his hand over her mouth, his other arm restraining her. She tried to struggle but he was too strong.

“Come on now girlie,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you, not unless you’re into that. But you already said no to the sex, so, I’m guessing that stands.”

Jenny continued to fight against him, trying to open her mouth so she could bite his hand. Her feet left the ground as she tried to use her weight to throw him backwards, but it was no use.

“I just want whatever it is you’ve got in that bag, alright?” he said. “That’s it, and I’ll leave you alone. Oh, and your cute little shuttlecraft of course, but that’s it. No harm no foul.”

In one quick motion Jenny managed to slip free of his grasp. She dropped her duffel, did a roll away from him on the sand, and then with a running jump she roundhouse kicked him as hard as she could in the face. He spun around in the air and hit the ground with a loud thud.

“I said not to touch me, you prawn!” she spat. She leaned over him and pulled at one of his eyelids; he was clearly out for the count.

Just then a cold wind blew across the desert, and she heard a strange sort of singing. It was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever heard, but there was a haunting sadness to it. When she turned around to face where the sound came from, she jumped in fright.

A lone figure stood on the sand a few yards in front of her, utterly motionless. His pale bald head caught the moonlight and his mouth tentacles cast shadows over his work suit. It could have been blue or gray, but she couldn’t tell in the moonlight. There was a strange symbol she didn’t understand across his right breast.

“Hello,” she said, stepping towards him. “What are you doing out here?”

She’d seen Ood before, but never one like this. In his hand, instead of a hindbrain he held an artificial translator orb. The Ood hadn’t used translator orbs since their dark days of enslavement, more than 2,000 years ago. He held the orb out to his side and it lit up, illuminating his face.

“Greetings, child of Gallifrey,” he said. “Our song has been searching for you.”

Jenny stepped towards him. She had the strangest feeling, like he was a ghost.

“I’m not from Gallifrey, I’m from Messaline,” Jenny said. “And I'm not a child, I’m … I’m a generated anomaly.”

She didn’t usually tell people that, but then again, she didn’t usually run into Ood with 2,000-year-old translator orbs, singing to her in the desert.

“I can hear your two hearts,” the Ood said. His voice was melodic, calm and friendly. “They sing the same tune as your father’s.”

Jenny felt her hearts skip a beat.

“My father?”

“Yes, child of Gallifrey.”

“Do you know him? Oh my god, maybe you do. He’s called the Doctor?”

“His hearts sing a new song now,” the Ood said. “You must find the Doctor Donna and bring her to the Ood Sphere, so that we can take care of her.”

“Donna?” Jenny asked, incredulous, remembering the redheaded woman who had been so kind to her. “You mean Donna who traveled with the Doctor?”

“Your father will need you soon,” the Ood continued. “You must reunite your family. You must bring the Doctor Donna back from where there is no music. You must bring her to the song of the Ood Sphere.”

“So that … you can take care of her?”

“That is correct, child of Gallifrey.”

“But how can I find her? They traveled in time and space. I’ve been all over this galaxy in the past three year but no one has heard of them.”

“The rift,” the Ood said, as if this were the simplest thing.

“The rift? What rift?”

“There is a rift in time and space that leads to the Doctor Donna, and you must find it. I will set your coordinates.”

“But how can I get there?” she asked. There was no way her own ship could survive a temporal shift; it was too rickety.

“With this,” the Ood said, and gestured towards the hovering Chula cruiser. Then he took something out of his pocket and offered it to Jenny. It was long and metal and the tip glowed blue. “This will set the coordinates for you.” She reached out and took it.

“But how did you get this?” she exclaimed, turning the sonic screwdriver over in her hand. “Did my dad give it to you?”

“He left it in the library.”

“The library? What library?”

“This is not important. It is yours now. Take it and find the Doctor Donna, to bring her to the Ood Sphere. Your father needs you.”

Excitement was beginning to build inside of her. Finally, she was making progress.

“Thank you, thank you so much … um, Ood,” she said.

“Signma. I was called Ood Sigma,” he said.

“Ood Sigma,” she said, clasping his free hand. “Thank you so much.”

“Go with the speed of song, child of Gallifrey. Go before the music has run out.”

Jenny nodded. She tossed the sonic screwdriver in the air and then caught it, the way she’d seen her father do. On the sand behind her, Captain John Hart was starting to stir.

“Oh no, Ood Sigma —“ she started to say, but when she turned around the Ood was already gone. The song had stopped, and the howl of the wind over the dunes was the only sound. She picked up her duffel bag and pointed the sonic at the Chula ship. The pilot’s hatch opened and she climbed inside.

“Well here goes nothing,” she said, and pointed the sonic at the control board. The cabin sprung to life, and a soothing female voice spoke.

“Kindly fasten your seatbelt,” the voice said. “Coordinates have been set. Can we get you a refreshment? Sensors indicate last beverage consumed was a Sontaran Screwdriver. Would you like a Sontaran Screwdriver now?”

“Um, no thanks.” She giggled and pulled the seatbelt across her chest. She closed her eyes and gripped the arm rests as she felt the ship begin to take off.

“I’m coming to find you, Dad,” she whispered as the ship vibrated around her. “Just you wait.”


	7. Escape From Gallifrey

The Master lay on his back on top of the duvet, in nothing but a pair of black silk boxers, watching teletubbies. He was bored. He’s programmed the Executioner’s TARDIS to notify him when the extra shielding mechanism he’d designed was up and running, so that he could begin trying to navigate into a part of the Vortex that could actually take him somewhere. But it had been nearly a week now and still she couldn’t quite manage it. She remained highly volatile, and it kept raining in the console room whenever he tried to set her coordinates. At least he had quarters now. Reading his mind, the TARDIS had modeled them after his suite when he’d been Prime Minister of Great Britain in the 21st century – all dark wood paneling, plush carpets and high-thread count sheets. His top drawer had even come with a pair of silver handcuffs and he thought briefly of Lucy, feeling a momentary twinge of something like regret: she’d been an entertaining pet, until she turned on him.

What was strange was that this body was more stable than any he could remember having in centuries. Much more. And with that came a more stable mind, too. He could still hear that infernal drumming – he suspected it would never stop – but he felt, well, calmer. His movements seemed more languid. He felt rather like his old self, as he had been before the Time War. But it was still very strange to look in the mirror and see the Doctor staring back at him.

Well, he didn’t look quite exactly like the Doctor, if he examined his features properly. For one, his hair and eyebrows were just a little darker, his skin less freckled, and he looked maybe five years older. Still, it was certainly close enough.

When he’d first changed out of his old clothes and gotten a proper look at himself in the mirror, it was a bizarre experience indeed.

“Well isn’t this just a little bit … homoerotic,” he said to his naked reflection, noting that this regeneration came with certain … enhancements. “Talk about the Rod of Rassilon!”

He had tried to recreate his laser screwdriver, but he lacked certain parts to complete it; the TARDIS couldn’t supply him with everything. He had found a strange file which contained photographs of every Time Lord which the TARDIS had seen while she was used as an execution chamber. Apparently, the execution did not have to be completed for the photo to show up, because there amongst the stack of notorious Gallifreyan criminals was an image of the Doctor in his fifth regeneration. 

“Ha,” the Master scoffed at it. “Idiot.”

He decided to pin it up on the wall and practice throwing knives at it, just for fun.

He switched off the Teletubbies program and decided to get dressed. He combed his hair back with pomade and slapped on some aftershave. He put on a slim black suit, a black shirt with jet cuff links and finished off the look with a shiny pair of wingtips. He decided not to wear a tie.

“Well look at that,” he said, examining himself from the side and smoothing down the front of his jacket. “This isn’t a bad frame if only one can dress properly.” The Doctor had always had a terrible dress sense, he thought. Too much going on.

Just then, TARDIS alarm went off.

“Excellent,” he said, and strode towards the console room.

Examining the screen, he could see that the pathway still wasn’t clear. He couldn’t quite tell what the coordinates were exactly – somewhere in the 52nd century. Well, there were worse places, to be sure. And it should be easy enough to get parts there for his screwdriver. The shields were up now, enough to protect him from the force of the crack in the Time Lock, and that was what mattered. It was risky flying blind, but he had no other choice: it was a risk he’d have to take.

“Alright Universe,” he said as he flipped the necessary levers and primed the accelerator pump. “Get ready for your Master.”

With a jolt the TARDIS fell out of the Time Lock and into the Vortex proper, and the Master was thrown back away from the console and onto the floor. The TARDIS was screaming again, her lights going wild. He saw holographic images flicker around the walls of all the Time Lords that she had executed. He grabbed hold of a pipe under the control panel and held on for dear life as sparks flew and flames sprung up from places in the floor.

“Come on, come on!” he urged her, trying to find the mind of the TARDIS with his own, and failing. “Don’t come apart on me now!”

The pipe that he clung to went hot, then cold, and then started to melt in his hand as if it were made of ice. The metal along the floor started to fade and revert back to the peachy, spongy state she’d been in when he first hijacked her: the strain of breaking through the Time Lock was making her lose her programming.

Still the alarms screamed at fever pitch and the flames rose ever higher.

“Just … a little … more,” he urged, and then suddenly it stopped. He staggered to his feet, adjusting his clothing and running a hand over his hair to smooth it. He went to look at the location screen, but the whole console was in shambles. Another burst of flame sprung up from the floor just to his right. He leapt back.

“Right then!” he said. “Well, I’d better get out of here.”

He ran to the door, pushed his way through, and came out into a white corridor. Another alarm began to sound. Before he could wonder where he was, a squadron of Judoon rounded the corner and pointed their guns at him.

“Oh you can’t be serious,” he said.

“Scopo trono frojo kofo todo!” shouted the commanding Judoon officer. The Master held his hand out in front of him, intending to blast them with a beam of energy – but nothing happened. That ability seemed to be lost with his most recent body.

“Well fuck me,” the Master said, and put his hands in the air.


	8. Stormcage

"That is not the proper response," the Commander said, striding towards the Master. The Judoon blew a puff of warm air from his nostrils, his nose horn twitching, and held a device up to the Master's forehead. It immediately glowed blue and emitted a short, shrill beep.

"Species: Time Lord," the Judoon said. "Searching facial recognition identity database. File found. Identifying subject."

The scanning instrument made a strange squawk and the light turned red. The Master smirked.

"Error detected. Facial recognition match positive. Identified as The Doctor. Retinal scan match negative. Subject listed as deceased. System error."

"Try it again," the Master said calmly. He was trying to catch the eye of the Judoon officer, to hypnotize him, but it wasn't working. Perhaps they'd ID him as the Doctor and let him go on his way? And what did they mean "deceased"? The rest of the squadron had their helmets on, their weapons cocked and ready. But the Judoon's mind was too simple, too opaque, and the Master couldn't penetrate it. The commander activated the scan again, and again the device emitted the same squawking beep and flashed red.

"Error. Database anomaly detected. Crime: identity theft and trespassing on Shadow Proclamation premises--"

"Hey now," the Master tried to interject as two more Judoon strode towards him, each taking hold of one of his arms. "I didn't choose to look like this you know, not on purpose."

"Plea," the Judoon continued. "Guilty. Sentence: refer to higher authority. Flight risk for unidentified Time Lord: high. Interim measure: incarceration."

"Hold on hold on," the Master said as they clamped iron cuffs around his wrists. Not again! he thought.

"Prepare for prison transport," the commanding officer said, clamping a gloved hand on the Master's shoulder. He holstered his scanner, slammed his palm against a blue button on the chest of his armor, and the Master felt the unmistakable jolt of teleportation.

The next thing he knew, he was standing with the three Judoon officers in a dank, curving hallway lit by a series of green overhead lights.

"Fresh meat!" he heard someone shout, and he turned his head to see a filthy-looking man banging a tin cup against the bars of a prison cell. There were cells all along the corridor.

Wordlessly, the Judoon marched him down the hall. Most of the other prisoners ignored him, but in one cell, a woman with a mop of curly, light brown hair rushed up to the bars as he passed and gasped.

"But," she stammered as they marched him by. "How --?"

They delivered him to an empty cell and began to attach his chained wrists to iron joints in the wall.

"Hey," he protested. "Don't I get a phone call?"

"Your phone call had been canceled," the commander said. The other officers finished chaining him up. He knew better than to struggle with Judoon, since assault on a Judoon officer was immediately punishable by death without trial.

"Welcome to Stormcage Containment Facility," the commander said as they exited the cell, locking him in. "Your case will be processed sometime in the next 2 to 36 months."

"Wait--!" he said, but they had already teleported out.

"Don't I even have the right to sit down?" he protested to the empty hallway. "Something? Anyone there? Hello?"

Just then there was a flash of light and a woman materialized before him - the curly-haired woman from the other cell. She took one look at him and laughed, in mockery or delight it was hard to tell. She wore a kind of green tunic dress with a leather belt, and her eyes were shining.

"Hello Sweetie," she said, approaching him. "So the spotters guide comes in handy after all! Has this you met me yet? Do you know who I am?"

He didn't understand what she meant, but this woman clearly had a teleport device and he wasn't about to let that go to waste. Did she think he was the Doctor?

"Ah, yes?" he ventured, taking a gamble.

"Oh good," she said, and with that she approached him, slid her hands up the front of of his shirt in a sultry manner, and kissed him full on the lips.


	9. The Unexpected Guest

Mickey heaved the groceries up onto the granite counter with a heavy sigh.

"This is mental, Love," he said to his wife. "They'll be here in less than an hour."

Martha came up behind him and put her arms around his waist, hugging him.

"I keep tellin' you, it won't take too long. It's antipasta. We've just got to assemble it."

He turned and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissing her on the forehead lightly, then on the nose. She giggled at the kiss and ducked her head away playfully.

"Fine, but ..." he said. "You know I can't be trusted to make it all fancy-like, the way you want it."

"Well you're gonna have to try," she said, breaking away from him with a smile. "I still have to shower and change."

"What, got to dress up for Captain Cheesecake?"

She shot him a look that was half humor, half reproach.

"And Gwen and Rhys!"

"Right," Mickey said.

"Come on," Martha said, sidling back up to him and putting her hands on his chest. Jealousy of the Doctor was one thing, but with Jack it was just silly. She grasped the lapels of his Belstaff motorcycle jacket. "You know that you're the only time traveling, intergalactic alien-fighter for me." She stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss him, but he turned his head and she caught the corner of his mouth. She couldn't blame Mickey for the fact that jokes about alien-fighting rivals weren't really his cup of tea, but still she wondered when he'd stop thinking of himself as a consolation prize.

"I just don't see why we couldn't just get some pizzas in, or fish an' chips," he protested.

"Because we're not kids!" Martha said laughing. "Look at us, we're a grown ass married couple now."

She gestured around their loft apartment as if to supply evidence of this fact. The exposed brick walls had a few pieces of tasteful art on them, the purple cushions on the white leather sofa were arranged just so, and even Mickey's gaming system was hidden away in a tasteful cabinet underneath the massive flatscreen TV. The slanted floor-to-ceiling windows on one side of the loft looked out over Shoreditch and a springtime evening sky that was just starting to go pink with sunset.

"I'm happy to run off killing aliens with you, yeah?" she said. "But sometimes I just want to behave like normal people. I want a normal night for once."

"Normal people get a pizza in," Mickey said. "They don't spend a hundred quid on floppy vegetables and a bunch of other unpronounceable stuff from Posh Mart UK."

Martha widened her eyes and growled in mock aggravation, grabbing him playfully on the backside. He kissed her, laughing into her mouth, and pushed her playfully back against the kitchen island. After a moment she broke away.

"Naughty husband! That doesn't come 'til later."

"Well Mrs. Smith," he said. "I reckon you'd better jump in the shower then."

"Okay but look --" she pulled the fat Tuscan Holidays cookbook towards her, the one her mother had given them as a wedding present, and opened it to a page marked with a blue Post-it.

"Serving plates in the cupboard, try to follow the photos, okay? It's not hard! We got all this crockery stuff from my family, we might as well use it."

"Yeah yeah, okay," Mickey said, pushing her affectionately out of the kitchen. "I'm only grousing. I've dealt with antimatter bombs, I'm sure I can handle antipasta."

Twenty minutes later, Martha emerged from their bedroom smelling of her bergamot and jasmine body wash. She wore a moss green dress, fitted, with a low back and half-sleeves, and her braided hair was twisted up in a chignon. Mickey whistled at her.

"Shut up," she said playfully. 

Mickey had taken off his shoes and jacket and was standing in dark jeans and a black tee shirt. On the kitchen island there were colorful arranged plates of olives, vegetables, meats and salad.

"Aren't you going to change?" she asked him.

"Nope," he replied, unconcerned. "I'm fine like this."

"Suit yourself," she said. She'd always been rather partial to a bloke who could dress up a bit. She liked the whole city-boy, suit-and tie-thing, but hey -- you couldn't have everything. Mickey understood her, her life and her past, in ways that almost no other man in the world possibly could. He loved her, he supported her, and he was a true partner to her in her work to keep the planet safe from alien criminals. Maybe most importantly, he understood exactly how important her family was to her, and would never dream of keeping her away from them, or of letting their work put them in jeopardy. She watched him finish arranging sliced bread along the edges of a plate and made a mental note to count her blessings.

She took five wine glasses down from the cabinet and opened the fridge to get the wine.

"Mickey!" she exclaimed.

"What is is sweetheart?"

"The wine! We forgot to get more and there's only one bottle!"

"Fuck," he said simply.

"Here don't worry," she said, going to the door and slipping on a pair of flats. She grabbed her handbag from the peg. "I'll just run down and get some more. You can finish up."

"Babe, they'll be here in like ten minutes."

"I know, just ... pour some glasses and I'll be back in a flash."

Not long after Martha left, the buzzer rang, and Mickey pressed the button to let the visitor up. A few moments later Jack opened the door with a wrap of his knuckles. He was holding a bouquet of white lilies and was dressed in his usual anachronistic-chic: 1940s-style military coat, boots, black slacks, a blue shirt and suspenders. 

"Knock know? Is there a Mr. and Mrs. Smith in the house?"

Mickey couldn't help but smile.

"The Innuendo Squad returns!" Mickey said, and opened his arms for a hug. Jack embraced him, laughing.

"Innuendo Squad, reporting for duty, sir," Jack said. "Where's the lovely Martha?"

"Oh she's just coming."

Jack's eyebrows shot up.

"From the shop!" Mickey amended quickly. "Coming back from the shop. To get more wine."

"Right, okay," Jack said, and winked.

"Man, you are impossible," Mickey said, but he was smiling. "Thanks for the flowers. She'll love these."

He took them and put the bouquet in the sink. He'd let Martha take care of them. Jack wandered over to the windows, looking out at the view.

"Not impossible, just a bit unlikely," he said.

"What's that, mate?"

"Oh, nothing."

The buzzer rang again, and a few minutes later Gwen and Rhys were clamoring into the apartment as well.

"It was a rip-off, I'm telling you it was," Rhys was saying. "That much for a fare from Paddington? Come on."

Gwen shushed him. She was radiant in fitted black jeans and a red top. Rhys was carrying two overnight bags.

"Hi!" she gushed. "Mickey! Jack! Oh come here." She embraced the two men in turn. "Don't mind us, we've just come from the station. Got a later train, no time to check into the hotel first."

Rhys shook hands with Mickey and Jack, looking only slightly awkward. Mickey knew the feeling: in this group, it was Rhys who was the Tin Dog now, and he quickly poured a large glass of wine and handed it to the Welshman.

"Cheers mate," Rhys said with a twinkle. 

"No problem, Martha's just run to the shop for reinforcements."

There was a strange crack of thunder, and they all turned towards the tall windows. A bank of dark rainclouds had rushed in, nearly blackening the sky. Mickey went and switched on the lights.

"That's weird," Gwen said, walking towards the glass. "It was just clear a moment ago when we were in the street. I wonder what --"

There was another loud crash of thunder, and then bright blue lightening lit up the sky.

"Whoa!" Rhys said. Mickey caught Jack's eye.

"Where did you say Martha had gone?" Jack asked him quietly.

"Corner shop," Mickey said. "She'll be back any minute."

The thunder and lightening struck again, shaking the building. In the street below a chorus of car alarms started to go off.

"That's funny," Gwen said. "You know the way the air feels, it almost reminds me of --"

"The rift!" Jack shouted, and in a flash he dove for Gwen, knocking her to the ground beneath him. And not a moment too soon, for in the next instant the lightning flashed again, brighter this time, and something very large came shattering through the high windows and into the loft. Mickey grabbed Rhys by the arm and dove behind the kitchen island. The object came to an abrupt stop, and outside the clouds broke, dumping buckets of rain onto London and blowing water into the flat, now open to the elements.

Jack pulled Gwen up with him and backed away from the intruding ship. They joined Mickey and Rhys by the kitchen as the ship's engines stopped and it remained hovering a few feet above the floor. For a moment they all stared in shock. The windows were tinted and they couldn't see inside.

"What ... the living fuck ... is that?" Rhys finally said.

"Chula war cruiser, second class," said Jack, reaching for a gun that had been concealed in his waistband. He held it up. "Chula ships can travel in space and time, but, usually only if they can harness rift activity."

"Jack," Gwen said. "I thought the rift was closed now."

"I know," he said. "They haven't been known to come to Earth at all, either. As far as I know they've never been here before."

"Mate, I do not want that thing in my flat, okay?" Mickey said.

"I know what you mean," Jack said. He slowly approached the ship, his gun held high. With a rush, the pressure in the cockpit release and a side hatch opened, but they still couldn't see inside.

"Oh god," Rhys said. "What kind of horrible beast is gonna come outa there?"

"Hello?" Jack said, peering around and into the cockpit. He was immediately thrown back and his gun went flying when a sturdy-heeled boot appeared into view and kicked him hard in the chest. The boot was then followed by the lithe body of an attractive girl, her blonde ponytail flying, who leapt onto Jack, pulled him up by the collar, and punched him in the face for good measure.

"What?" Gwen exclaimed, at the same time that Rhys said "Holy fuck!" and Mickey dove for the gun.

"Freeze right there!" he shouted, pointing the gun at the intruder. She took her own gun from a back holster and pointed it at Mickey.

"Is this some kind of a trick?" she shouted. "I thought this was going to lead me to my father!"

"Who?" Mickey said, confused, still holding up the gun.

The girl gestured towards the prone Jack with a jerk of her head. 

"I just left his partner in the desert. Where's this place?"

Jack stirred on the floor and scrambled to his feet, hands in the air. His nose was bleeding.

"Hi, ah, miss?" he said. "Nice to meet you. I'm Captain Jack Harkness. And you are?"

The girl backed towards the ship again, covering them all with her gun.

"Like your partner was a captain huh? Con artist, more like! Your partner, John Hart? I already met him while you were busy "

"What?" Jack said.

"While you were busy flirting with that green three-breasted woman."

Gwen, Rhys and Mickey all looked at Jack.

She continued. "He tried to rob me, lured me out into the Clom desert, but I got the better of him. And I'll get the better of you, too, if you don't tell me where I am and where I can find the Doctor, because the Ood said --"

Jack started to laugh; at least some of this was starting to make sense.

"What," the girl said. "You think this is funny?" And she fired a shot into the ceiling. Gwen and Rhys hit the floor and Mickey and Jack rushed forward to try and subdue her. But with a strange twisting kick she managed to knock Mickey to the ground, grab his gun, and now faced them with a gun in each hand, one pointed at Mickey and one at Jack.

"I'm not messing around," she said. "I don't want to hurt you, just let me go so I can find the Doctor."

Just then Martha came through the door holding a carrier bag, which she promptly dropped to the floor in shock. 

"Jenny!" she cried. 

"Martha!" 

Jenny ran to Martha and threw her arms around her neck in a forceful hug. Martha looked over Jenny's shoulder.

"What the fuck is a bloody spaceship doin' in my flat?"


	10. A Change of Plans

The chip shop was nearly empty, and the dark clouds continued to dump buckets over London. Car alarms were still going off all over the city as a result of what the BBC was calling a 'freak electrical storm.'

The proprietor of Hoxton Street Fish and Chips, an elderly Pakistani man with a peaked Kashmiri hat, shuffled up to the only occupied table in the shop. A group of six -- three men and three women -- had been sitting and speaking in hushed voices there for the past several hours. As he approached he thought he caught the words 'invisible' and 'space ship' and 'sexy clone.' Kids these days. It was probably the drugs, although this lot looked a bit old for it. And a bit tame. Just goes to show, you never know.

"We will be closing in five minutes, at eleven," he said wearily. "Will you be wanting anything else?" He looked at the stacks of empty red plastic baskets and grease-spotted newsprint that littered their table. He'd be impressed if they managed to eat any more than they already had.

"We're all set, thank you so much," the attractive young black woman said. The two other women, a blonde and a brunette, both beamed up at him, and the man in suspenders shot him a wink. He suppressed a roll of his eyes and headed back to the register to cash out.

"Love your hat!" the blonde woman called after him.

 

"So let me get this straight," Martha said, turning back to Jenny. "This ... person, this alien, guy, thing, whatever ... he told you to find Donna? But then he sent you to us? Why?"

It had taken them so long to explain about the war between the humans and the Hath, and defeating Davros, and twhat it meant to be a generated anomaly, and the rest of it, that they were still trying to sort out their present predicament.

"I don't know," Jenny said, swirling the remains of a cold chip in a little puddle of sauce.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Martha said, looking around the table at the faces of her husband and friends. "I can't tell you what a wonderful surprise it is to see you alive. Even if you did ruin my flat." 

"Hey now," Jack said. "The way I parked that cruiser, the force field should prevent any more water from getting into your place until you can get the windows fixed."

"Yeah," Mickey laughed. "Other people use tarpaulins to protect their furniture when they 'ave the builders in. Me, I get an invisible space warship."

"It's not a warship," Jack corrected. 

"Same difference," Rhys said. He was looking a little overwhelmed. Gwen put her arm across his back and gave him a squeeze. 

"The trouble is, Jenny, that none of us have heard from Donna," Martha said.

"I was surprised she was back in London and our time at all," Jack said. "After that Time Lord Metacrisis business, I didn't expect that she'd ever stop traveling with the Doctor. They were like two peas in a pod."

"When we saw her on the news for that lottery business, we were shocked," Mickey said, giving his wife a look. "Martha tried to contact her after that, but she could never get through."

"Do you think something ... bad happened? With her and the Doctor?" Gwen asked. "Maybe she doesn't want to be reminded?"

"I guess," Martha said. "I mean, I can understand not wanting anything to do with aliens after some of the things you encounter when you're ... you know, traveling with him."

"With my dad," Jenny said.

"I can't imagine," Gwen said.

"I'm not sure I want to imagine it," Rhys muttered. 

They were all quiet for a moment.

"Do you think the Doctor's in trouble?" Mickey asked. "Could that be why Donna doesn't want to talk to us?"

"But she has the Doctor's mind now, doesn't she?" Jack chimed in. "I mean, she has his cleverness at least. Remember? Certainly she'd be able to help us figure out what to do."

"Like I said, Ood Sigma said that I needed to take her to the Ood Sphere, so they could 'take care of her,'" Jenny repeated. "And this is what I need to do in order to find and help my father, apparently. So that is what I'm going to do."

"We are closed now!" the chip shop proprietor called from behind the counter.

"I just wish we knew where she lived now," Martha said, standing up and putting on her rain coat. The others followed her lead.

"Actually," Jack said. "I ... do know where she lives." They all stared at him.

"Why didn't you say anything!" Jenny exclaimed. "Let's go see her right now!"

"I don't think that's a good idea," Jack said.

"Why not?" Gwen asked. Jack looked at Martha.

"Just a hunch," he said. "But let's all get some sleep and reconvene in the morning. We can decide what to do then."

They left the chip shop, and Gwen, Rhys and Jack went off to their hotel. Martha and Mickey took Jenny back to their flat. The rain was still coming down hard, but for the most part it had been blocked from getting inside the flat, just as Jack said. There was just a bit of a draft. Martha took some sheets and a blanket down from the hall closet and set Jenny up on the sofa. Mickey had already retired to their bedroom.

"Thanks again Martha," Jenny said cheerfully, pulling off her boots. "I'm really glad that I found you and your nice friends."

"I'm just still amazed, and very glad that you're alive," Martha said. 

"I just know we'll find him," Jenny said, and threw her arms around her in an enthusiastic hug. Martha hugged her back, but experienced a pang. She could feel Jenny's two hearts beating against her own chest, and it startled her. It was familiar in a comforting way, but also something else, too. She wasn't sure what. She felt like crying all of a sudden, but held it back. She realized for the first time how significant this was going to be for her old friend.

"The Doctor is going to be so happy when you find him," Martha said. Jenny's eyes twinkled. 

"Do you really think so?"

"I do."

"And aren't you looking forward to seeing him as well? And Donna?"

Martha hesitated. "Yeah 'course I am. Of course."


End file.
